Accidents
by queen-marcelline
Summary: TW: Selfharm, depression, slightly gory bloodiness. Great Depression!America is actually depressed. Alfred goes a bit mad and Arthur finds the aftermath. Coping with their tragedies is going to be difficult, but maybe they can do it together after all.


AN: Please don't read this if your mental/physical health will be negatively impacted! This story contains self harm, suicide mentions, and blood. Sort of a true story adapted to my second favorite pairing. I hope you like it but I don't really care. Review or don't. I was basically too lazy to re-read this or edit it in any way so sue me. I wish I owned Hetalia, but I do not. If I did, it would be entirely yaoi smut.

The heavy wooden door to the bathroom was locked. No visitors were coming that he knew of, but he had a strange feeling he was forgetting an appointment. It must not have been all that important because he had come home.

Finally he could let himself go. His shit-eating grin slid away and he allowed himself to feel the ache in his chest. He was so alone here. No one in this new neighborhood was friendly. He was protected by Arthur before, and hadn't noticed how much everyone seemed to hate him, with the exception of Matthew. They whispered about him on the street and, though they were much younger than him, they scorned him and ridiculed him for his smallest mistakes.

He wanted to show them all how strong he could be. He was going to prove himself to the world. For a while, it seemed as though he was doing just that. Lately though, he'd been slipping. He couldn't smile as easily and the word on the street was that America was in a recession.

"I'm perfectly fine," he laughed bitterly, discarding his clothes and turning the shower on. White scars littered his torso and arms, souvenirs of his recent decline into madness. Stepping into the shower, he gripped a small black box. This was all he needed. Everyone else could go to hell.

Under the assault of scalding water, Alfred slowly drew the blade firmly across his forearm, moaning in delight as seconds passed before the blood beaded up and dripped down his fingertips. He brought his arm back up and did it again and again until his hands were shaking, the edges of his vision going black. He continued punishing himself, head pounding.

"I can't even cry right," he muttered bitterly, the words a bit heavy and slurred on his tongue. "Failure. Loser. Reject. Wimp. You act like you're so great when you can't even keep yourself emotionally stable for half a fucking century."

Alfred gasped softly as a particularly deep cut was hit by the steaming water. His skin was screaming in pain but it was so difficult for him to feel anything at all these days. He'd forgotten to unstop the drain and now blood and water were pooling at his feet. He flexed his wrist and made a deep slash, biting his lip. Blood gushed heavily from the wound and the metallic smell flooded his nostrils. Maybe he'd gone too far. He bent to turn the water off and landed face first in the tub. Groaning, he managed to turn on his side before passing out completely.

Arthur wasn't normally impatient but Alfred was, he checked his watch, officially an hour late. Slightly heartbroken, he left the restaurant where he had planned to ask the younger man to accompany him to the premiere of a new silent movie. Now, however, he was going to Alfred's house, a giant and unmistakable white imperial estate about a half an hour away. Arthur had come to the restaurant with intentions of courting the dashing younger man, but if the idiot couldn't be punctual for their dinner date, then he was definitely going to get what for. The back door was always unlocked, because it faced Matthew's house, and Alfred was both too lazy and too busy with other things to ever lock it. Arthur took the steps two at a time, large brow furrowed in concentration on all the bad words he was going to fling at his favorite colleague.

"Alfred, you arse, get out here and explain why you were late to supper!"

No reply. This greatly concerned Arthur, as he typically would have received some sort of witty and slightly offensive reply. Loud-mouth Alfred was backing down to a challenge? Never. Something was wrong.

Arthur opened each door as he went down the main corridor. Finally he heard the sound of a running shower. The carpet just outside the bathroom door was damp, water seeping into his socks. He jiggled the handle violently. He grabbed a chair from the bedroom adjacent to the bathroom and slammed through the door, only to drop the chair immediately in shock.

"Oh God," he whispered, going paler than ever. "Oh god, Alfred!" He rushed through the pinkish water to the unconscious body floating in the almost red water in the tub. His wrist and forearm were still bleeding, but just a little. The smell of blood made Arthur's head swim, but he cradled Alfred's body until the paramedics arrived, and he gripped the limp hand of his would-be lover all the way to the hospital. The tears wouldn't stop, and neither could his shaking. How could he have been so stupid as not to notice how much Alfred needed him? Arthur's left hand gripped the spectacles he adored so much, still a bit foggy from the steamy bathroom. Breath shuddered in and out of his body but he wished it would stop altogether.

A kind nurse in Garfield scrubs ushered Arthur into a waiting room, smiling kindheartedly. Sitting quietly, Arthur stared numbly at his hands. Francis came to check on him at some point, forcing him to curl up with a blanket, but Arthur didn't speak, didn't look up, didn't recognize his presence. Matthew came and went a few times, encouraging Arthur to eat, his own fists shaking at his sides. Francis returned with a Tuesday newspaper, eyes sadly scanning the headlines on October 24, 1929, as he sat next to a few weeping people. Everyone grieved, but Arthur remained entirely vacant. Perhaps the blood Alfred had drained from his body had been Arthur's instead. It certainly seemed like it.

For more than twenty-four hours, he laid in the waiting room, staring blankly at the bluish walls surrounding him. He didn't move until a short doctor came to him and said in a soft voice, "He's awake."

Arthur sprung up, shoulders tense, eyes hollow and rimmed with evidence of a sleepless night. His hands twitched nervously. "Can I see him?"

The doctor nodded, leading Arthur to a small room with a large window and a clinical-looking bed. In it laid a very weak-looking Alfred, who looked away from his visitor. Arthur trembled as tears started streaming down his cheeks. He handed the glasses he had been curled up with all night to the reclining man, who smiled tightly and put them on, the blue eyes behind them dull. Arthur sat on the edge of the bed and took Alfred's hands, as if making sure he was still real.

"Idiot," he sobbed. "You horrible, horrible idiot."

Alfred nodded and reached up to cup Arthur's face, his hands cold but gentle. "Why are you crying, Arthur? You wouldn't have missed me."

"The _hell_ I wouldn't have!" he screeched, standing bold upright. "How could you fucking _say_ that?! I've been here all night and day waiting for you to wake up!" He shook like a leaf, stuttering into silence. Finally, he found his voice again. "We had a date, Alfred.. I was going to ask you to go out with me but you weren't there. I blame myself. If I'd told you I loved you sooner, maybe this wouldn't have happened." He was so bitter, heart aching more than he thought possible. This was his fault, after all. All of this was so unnecessary. He could have avoided putting Alfred in all this pain if he'd simply told him how much he loved him.

"I didn't mean to do it," murmured Alfred, taking Arthur's hand weakly. "I went too far on accident. I wouldn't leave you without saying goodbye."

Arthur sat down again, gripping Alfred's hand and glaring at his iv lines. "Don't leave me at all," he whispered hoarsely kidding Arthur's forehead. "I need you here."

With a nod, Alfred's eyes closed. He was so exhausted from all of these unwelcome emotions swirling inside him. He'd so much rather be numb again. As Arthur's hand slowly ran through his hair until he fell asleep, Alfred thought that maybe being able to feel this was enough to make up for all the other things that came along with it. If they stuck together, maybe it would be enough.


End file.
